


Simple Solutions for a Stylish Bedroom

by truejaku (hereonourstreet)



Category: DRAMAtical Murder, DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Bliss, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:38:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5232488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereonourstreet/pseuds/truejaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noiz never thought of domesticity as erotic but it is when he really thinks about it, especially if it's domesticity with Mizuki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple Solutions for a Stylish Bedroom

**Author's Note:**

> a really fuckin weird vent fic dont pay attention to me

            You watched him for two years, dating people he didn’t really like and fucking guys he wasn’t really attracted to; trying to find someone to call a partner and ignoring you the whole time. Of course, he didn’t _ignore_ you outright. You were his “best friend” and “the one person who understood him no matter what,” but you were never “boyfriend material” or whatever the fuck it was because his inexpressible criteria was a mystery to you, if he ever even had any. You thought it was a crush – feelings for the first person that made you feel something, and that made sense. That happened to teenagers and you were, after all, a teenager when you met him. You didn’t really understand how people worked, and he was the first person who ever made sense to you. Of course you were going to crush on him. It would go away.

            It never did.

            Mizuki dated a guy who hated art and never cared about his sketchbooks. He never wanted to flip through them and didn’t get excited or flattered when Mizuki drew his portrait as a surprise. He didn’t like hearing the stories secondhand from him about his tattoo clients and he was never appreciative of the photos of the designs he gave people every day. Mizuki dated that guy for two whole months. Exclusively. They dated for two months. Exclusively. That’s the guy Mizuki dated.

            Then he went out a few times with a guy who was _exclusively_ a bottom. That just made you laugh. You were right when you said that one wasn’t going to last.

            He dated a guy who fucked him with a weird dildo that gave him an infection _and_ a guy who fucked him with a pierced dildo. You helped him go to the doctor _and_ reminded him that if wanted a pierced dick, he only had to tell you. He could have the real thing. He smiled and rolled his eyes, like he was trying to convince himself that you were joking. You weren’t.

            He dated a fuckhead who kicked his cat once and that was the first time you saw Mizuki so raging with anger that he actually admitted he was a bad choice. They were all bad choices. But Mizuki didn’t agree. That guy, though. The cat-kicker. He was a bad choice.

            He even went out with a big, muscular guy who had long, navy hair and wore kimonos, and that one was really awkward. Mizuki didn’t seem to realize until the day he took a seat next to Koujaku, who was sweating bullets the entirety of the relationship. You watched as Mizuki’s eyes literally lit up in an epiphany and he broke up with him that night. You imagine it went something along the lines of, _“I’m sorry, but I didn’t realize how much you looked like my dickhead friend Koujaku, and he’s the last person I’d ever fuck so this isn’t going to work out…”_

(You fucked that guy two weeks later though, and he wasn’t half bad.)

            You thought he’d start to realize how fruitless this all was and pull back on the dating stuff, but he only started to take it more seriously. He started asking guys straight up what they wanted out of life and he _was_ rapidly approaching thirty, so you sort of understood, in that “I don’t understand whatsoever but people say this is what it’s like to be twenty-eight so I assume they’re right” kind of way.

            He met a guy who was really nice. He was attractive and hilarious and treated Mizuki well. He loved his art and he listened to his stories and he didn’t mind when Mizuki said someone else was cute. He trusted him and seemed to fall in love with him quickly. He was you. He was just you, only in a different body. He was you, only Japanese and tall and well adjusted and sociable. So he wasn’t you at all, only he was. He loved Mizuki the way you loved Mizuki, only you’d been loving Mizuki that way for two years before they met, and you resented that. Mizuki basically met you only better – a better version of you – and went for him instead.

            You thought it was the end. You considered leaving the stupid fucking island because you thought wedding bells where in their future, or whatever Mizuki’s version of wedding bells was.

            But then he came to you one day, completely sober and aware – not drunk and rambling like usual – and he admitted the relationship wasn’t going well, because the guy wanted different things. Mizuki told you that he’d brought up the idea of going to a furniture store and the boyfriend freaked out. It was too close to moving in together and Mizuki wasn’t sure he really ever wanted to get married, but he sure as hell wasn’t looking to date someone who didn’t want to be with him long-term. He reminded you that he was abandoned as a kid and he was always poor and how all he wanted was a kitchen that he’d see in those ads, all clean and decorated and full of the best appliances and nicest countertops. He just wanted security. A nice house. A nice partner. To feel like he was happy enough that staying in one place wasn’t so scary and daunting to him like it was when he was younger. He’d always felt too tied down by the idea of being in a relationship or buying a house. Single life in apartments was freer. But that’s because he was poor and unloved and scared.

            That was when you snapped.

            You pushed him against a wall and fell into his chest, grabbing his shoulders and hugging him tightly but in complete despair. You shook him hard and called him an idiot and grabbed his chin and asked him why he was so stupid, why he was so oblivious, how he couldn’t fucking see that there _is_ someone who wants to marry him right under his fucking nose. He stared at you in shock and you leaned in and whispered, _“Marry me and I’ll buy you the house of your dreams and I’ll fuck you the way you want to be fucked in every single room until the day we die.”_

He ran away, no surprise to you.

            You thought a lot about what he said. You never thought of domesticity as erotic, but it is. To you, at least, it’s fucking sexual and sensual and the idea of having a husband who loved you enough to want to fuck you every day was the hottest thing you could imagine. You only started feeling that way after Mizuki though. Before him, you always thought that long term relationships and monogamous couples meant the people in them had given up on life. It was boring and rote and the end of your young life.

            But then you met Mizuki.

            You thought you’d ruined everything by confessing to him. You didn’t see him for nearly two weeks and he didn’t return your calls or texts or e-mails. You couldn’t decide if it was worse losing him to another person or because you fucked things up yourself, but luckily, you didn’t have to decide.

            He showed up at your door one day and stared you down for a few seconds.

            _“Why did you say that?”_

_“Say what?”_

_“What you said.”_

_“Which time?”_

_“You know which time.”_

_“You mean the last time?”_

He got frustrated with you and slapped your shoulder so you gave in and admitted everything, but it simply boiled down to: you loved him. You were in love with him. And that’s a cliché and this is such a written scene, one boy on the doorstep and the other admitting that he always loved him, but here it is and here you are. This is what’s happening and Mizuki kissed you.

            He was afraid that you were too young.

            He was afraid that you’d fall out of love.

            He was afraid that _he’d_ fall out of love.

            He was afraid that he had such strong feelings for you that they might never go away. He dated around to see if he felt the same about anyone else. He never did.

            He never realized you loved him to the extent that you did. That you _do,_ you corrected.

            You could have grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him into your bedroom and had sex with him right then and there, but you didn’t. You closed the door and pulled him down the street, then the corner, then five more blocks, then four more, the whole time he was shouting at you, asking where you were taking him.

            You bought a new dresser, two couches, and a bigger bedframe that day at the furniture store. He went home with you and helped you put everything together and stayed to help you break everything in. He was the best accessory though: everything you bought that day looked better when Mizuki was naked on top of it, begging you to fuck him harder and then kissing you so long that you forgot you existed in a real, corporeal world. He stayed the night. And then he never left.

            And that’s why, when the kids are gone for the weekend, and the house is cleaned, and you finally bought the new dining table, which was the last piece you needed for the new kitchen – Mizuki’s dream kitchen, the one he’s wanted since he was a kid – and you have him bent over it, grabbing his chest and fucking into him as hard as you can, you say, _“Remember when I promised you I’d buy you a house and fuck you in it if you married me?”_

 


End file.
